


won't you build high

by ashers_kiss



Category: The Mummy (1999), The Mummy Series
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 20:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17049893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: Ardeth believes in fate.





	won't you build high

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eternal Scribe (Shadowcat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcat/gifts).



> So a little bit of a mix-up with versions ended up in a really, really old draft being published instead...which I only just found out about. /o\ Anyway! Eternal Scribe, this is the version you were supposed to receive - a little bit shorter, but hopefully all the better for it, with better characterisation and dialogue. (There is a reason I scrapped the other one. I liked the story I was trying to tell, but not...not for them, I don't think.)

Ardeth believes in fate.

How could he not? He has felt its touch more than once in his life, not least when he first donned his robes, or held his newborn nephew. He welcomes it, pays heed to it.

It is still something of a surprise to feel its shivery fingers down his spine after the Legion’s stand, watching their lone survivor stumble his way out of the city, even as he commands his men to wait, let the desert do as it will. He would swear that for just one impossible moment, the Legionnaire’s eyes meet his across the sand, and that shivering sensation turns into a firm grip. Firm enough that his mind goes blank, and he thinks, _Ah_.

There are many, many times Ardeth regrets allowing Rick O’Connell to escape Hamunaptra that day, but he could never imagine _how_ much.

***

He does not tell Amina about the skirmish, not yet – it grew boring, she complained, to be sister and wife to Medjai and hear the same stories over and over again.

Instead, he sits in her tent and asks about her role as historian, the improvements she intends to make to the current system, what scrolls can be repaired and which she will have to recreate, word for word in delicate hand on traditional paper. Amina rolls her eyes as she peels vegetables – her second greatest talent, encouraging anything to grow amongst these barren miles of sand – but she indulges him, complains about the task she loves and the son she adores, currently racing round the tent as if he were a fine horse.

She is, after all, well experienced in what the position of Medjai entails.

“Mahmoud!” she snaps, eventually, after he has knocked into her and her pot several times. “At least show your uncle some respect and rush around _outside_.”

Mahmoud barely pauses, sketches Ardeth a hasty bow and greeting, and is gone before Ardeth has fully responded. He does not mind; it will be some years before his nephew understands the position he inhabits, before he stands in silent awe with the other children as Ardeth passes. In truth, Ardeth would prefer it last.

(He would, however, perhaps prefer _slightly_ more respect from his sister herself, after he finds himself with a bowl full of peas to shell and an order to “make himself useful”.)

***

He had thought O’Connell just another treasure hunter, only looking for what he could take from the world before it took from him. Their first few true meetings do little to dissuade him of that, even as fate nudges at him (even as he appreciates, distantly, the swing of his arm, and yes, even the cleverness of the dynamite, though Ardeth will never admit that out loud).

But he quickly begins to see – hastened by the creature’s advances – that as Evelyn’s intelligence, her skill begins to shine, so does O’Connell’s. How that arrogance, that quick mouth cover a core of _goodness_ that he does his best to hide, and fate fairly _sings_ along Ardeth’s ribs now.

O’Connell’s pulse pounds under his fingers as he holds him back, straining while Evelyn sacrifices herself to the creature, as if every fibre of his being cries out at the injustice of it. Ardeth cannot reprimand him for it, not more than he has done. Not when he shakes just as much, when he cannot tear his own eyes from her, standing stronger, more resilient than either of them.

*

(For many, many years later, Rick keeps his shirt on in bed, no matter whose bed they may be using, no matter how Ardeth and Evelyn try to persuade him. He will wear it open at their request, and the catch of his breath at a touch to the soft skin of his belly is one of Ardeth’s favourite sounds.

It isn’t until he sees the scars that Ardeth understands.)

***

The first time he sees Evelyn Carnahan, she is a slight figure in black on the ground, knocked over by the force of a recoil she did not expect or know how to handle. He is ashamed to say he does not even register her as a threat. (His sister smacks him when he tells her that, the backs of her fingers sharp against his chest. Evelyn, though, looks disappointed, _hurt_ , which is a million times worse.) The second time, he is too full of such burning rage – and yes, terror, terror that makes him snap, his hand shake on his sword – to register fate’s delicate touch at her presence.

The next time he meets her though, oh. Her eyes blaze with righteous fire, with resolve, her back straight and her chin lifted – and even as he argues with her, Ardeth sees it, the determination to put right what she has unleashed upon the world. Because Evelyn owns what she did; she does not shy away as he might have expected of that inexperienced figure in Hamunaptra’s sands. She will put this right, or she will die trying. It is lit along every line of her, every movement, every outraged cry, and this time, fate wraps its hands around his spine and _pulls_.

(He sees a similar fire in her the first time he puts his mouth to her skin, to much more intimate places than that. Her mouth curves on a happy, almost relieved breath, and Ardeth cannot take his eyes from her. Rick, pressed against her back with big hands almost encircling her waist, murmurs in her ear, and something like a laugh escapes her. She tangles one hand in Rick’s hair, the other already buried in Ardeth’s (holding him in place, though he needs no guidance), and pulls him in for a kiss.

Ardeth does not worship her, as he suspects Rick does, for she is not a goddess, but a queen. But he does his best to make it clear that he would lay down his life for her – for both of them, as Rick’s hands brush Ardeth’s on Evelyn’s hips, electrifying his entire being.)

***

When he first sees them again after the creature’s defeat (unfortunately not his final demise, and Ardeth still holds his breath sometimes, even now, waiting), barely two years have passed, and they are already creating quite the name for themselves. Ardeth comes to them in Jordan with a translation issue – an ancient dialect passed beyond the Medjai’s knowledge, to Amina’s frustration; he reasons that, if Evelyn herself does not know it, she’ll know the person who does – but at the smile that sets light to Evelyn’s entire face as she catches sight of him, followed almost immediately by something smaller, just as warm, just as bright on Rick’s face, he almost forgets his entire purpose.

It does take him quite a while to remember, though.

“Mmmm,” Evelyn hums, much, much later. She examines the scroll completely naked, tilting it in various directions under the light, while they lie collapsed, exhausted, and once again, Ardeth marvels at her voracity, her _focus_ on knowledge. “I don’t know it myself…but there is a book, back in the Library…”

Ardeth hears the title before Rick groans beside him, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Guess we’re going back to Egypt,” he mutters. Evelyn looks up, that light shining from her again, and Ardeth holds out a hand to her.

“But not quite yet,” he says. Evelyn laughs, but she is careful to replace the scroll in its carrier before she rejoins them.

***

Ardeth introduces them to his sister when Alex is three, and determined to squirm out of his father’s grasp. Evelyn’s pronunciation of the traditional greeting is flawless, though her tongue falters slightly over their southern inflections. Rick, arms full of curious toddler, manages a quick salute and the bright flash of a grin, even a, “Hey, good to meet – Alex, stay _still_.”

Amina gives Ardeth an arch, knowing look, while Evelyn practically blurs with trembling nerves at his side. Then, before he can say anything, she has Alex out of Rick’s hold and into Mahmoud’s, telling him to find some entertainment as both boys blink up her, still for once in their lives. Ardeth does not laugh, but it is close, especially when he catches Rick’s eye.

There is a small noise of delight from Evelyn as she notices the scrolls, the Medjai’s history gathered up neatly in Amina’s writing kit, and soon there might as well be no one else in the world, both of them lost to the invaluable knowledge, in the opportunity to _share_.

Rick’s hand is warm against the small of Ardeth’s back even through his robes, his voice low and amused next to his ear. “Surplus to requirements, huh?”

It almost seems as though the heat of his hand travels through every one of Ardeth’s veins, filling him up and easing muscles that are always tense, always poised, just as much as the sight of Evelyn and his sister’s heads so close together does. There is something weighty and contented in his stomach, deep in his mind, and it is not fate, not this time, but it may not be so far removed. “I believe so, my friend.”

“You could make us coffee,” Evelyn suggests, and Amina laughs.


End file.
